Ghosts

by Bill Noel

  Heather’s left wrist displayed three bracelets that I would call cutesy. “How does that make her a witch?”

  She leaned close again and whispered as if she were sharing a state secret. “Some of them—especially the necklaces—have that star-looking thing on them.”

  “Pentagram?” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s it. That witchy symbol,” said Heather. “Anyway, she’s always trying to push her baubles, always short of money.” She leaned even closer and kept her eye on the bar. “Charles thinks she might smoke the weed a bit too much.”

  I hadn’t heard Heather say anything that would put Beatrice in the strange category. In fact, it sounded as if she would fit in well on my quirky island.

  From the jukebox, Ricky Van Shelton yanked tears out of every note of “Life Turned Her That Way.” The room was packed, and Charles arrived at the table.

  “Break time,” he said. He pulled a beer can of out of his pocket and set it close to Heather, put a half-full bottle of Cabernet in front of me, leaned his crutches against the table, and sat in the chair Heather had saved for him.

  I looked at his shirt. “Been to bartending school?” I said, certain that I knew the answer.

  He peered down at his chest. “Like it?” he said. “Ordered it on the Internet. Thought if I wore it, customers wouldn’t scream at me for screwing up their drinks—me being a highly educated mixologist.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not yet,” he said, taking a sip of beer.

  I looked toward the bar. “Don’t they need you?”

  Charles looked back over his shoulder. “Nah. Dawn’s got it under control. She raised two kids; had the guts to leave her abusive husband; and treats all the kids working here like a mother hen. Things are under control. Besides, I’m taking her shift Monday—poor thing’s got to go to court to get a restraining order against her ex.” Charles’s eyes lit up like a lightbulb had gone off in his brain. “Speaking of exes, how’s yours?”

  Time to nip that one. My need to not think about it outweighed Charles’s insatiable appetite for nosiness. “Later,” I said. “Caught the thief?”

  He sighed. “Thanks for bringing that up.”

  Heather put her hand on Charles thigh. “Now, Chucky,” she said and winked at me, “You know who it is.” She shook her head. “Looking at all those employee folks is barking up the wrong totem pole.”

  I leaned closer to the lovebirds. “Who?” I said.

  “Frank Fontana,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

  Where had I heard that name before?

  “Sweetie,” said Charles, putting his arm around Heather. “You know that may not be right.”

  “Now, Chucky, cutie,” she countered, “you said it was a good thought. You said Frank had to be considered.”

  Sweetie … cutie—I was about ready to start talking about Joan rather than fall deeper into the syrup. Instead, I said, “Frank Fontana?”

  I wished I hadn’t. Charles glanced at Heather and then looked me in the face. “A spirit, phantom, spook, soul … He’s a ghost.”

  It came to me: on Halloween, when old man Carr told me the story about the twins dying in a pavilion fire in the fifties—and about Frank Fontana and how he had disappeared, the rumor that his ghost was mad because no one tried to save the young girls.

  I blinked, took a sip of wine, and thought I would need many more before the night was over. I turned to Heather. “How do you know it’s Fontana?” I asked this as if it were a completely normal question.

  “I knew it was the apparition of someone but didn’t know who until Chester told me,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said, turning to Charles. “Would that be the same Chester Carr who told you the tables had been rearranged by ghosts playing cards?”

  “That’s the one,” said Heather, speaking for Charles. My sarcasm is often missed. “Chester said he thought more about it after he figured out why the tables had been moved. He never saw Frank in here—alive or in his current spirit state—but Chester knew that the bar that was on this exact spot was called Jerk’s or Perk’s or something like that.” She pointed at the floor. “It was Fontana’s favorite drinking spot. Since he was here, he must have played cards with the gang that’s coming to play now.”

  “She could have a point,” said Charles.

  Whoever said that love was blind, definitely had twenty-twenty vision, I thought.

  I turned to Charles. “Make sure I have this right. The spirit of Frank Fontana is stealing cases of whiskey and money, and it lifted a case of bourbon to the top shelf so it would fall on you.”

  “Told you Chris was quick,” said Heather.

  “Well,” said Charles, “that’s one working theory—I’m not certain. I’m considering other suspects.”

  “Human?” I asked.

  Beatrice appeared at the table. She leaned over to Charles and told him that Dawn needed help at the bar. Charles huffed and puffed and then grabbed his crutches and hobbled off.

  My plan had worked. I hadn’t thought of Joan or William since I’d walked in the door of Cal’s. Thank God for comfort zones, I thought. Then I left the bar and went home, basking in the warmth of the evening’s fun and hoping for a great night’s sleep. Like many things in life, you don’t always get what you hope for, and change—for better or worse—is always right around the corner.

  CHAPTER 32

  I did something Sunday that I hadn’t done in maybe fifteen years. I went to church. I parked in the public library’s small parking lot across from the Baptist Church and hesitantly walked to the front of the simple white house of the Lord. I took a deep breath, waited until the last possible minute before the eleven o’clock service, and then walked up the steps and entered the double doors. I had been reared in the Baptist Church and had many fond memories of Sunday school, Wednesday prayer services, and vacation Bible school. As a kid, I’d had no idea what the preacher was talking about, but I could tell from his tone that it was important, eternally important. During my adult years, I understood what he was saying but didn’t understand what it meant.

  My fondest memories centered on such inspirational, melodious, and haunting hymns as “Precious Memories,” “Just As I Am,” and “Amazing Grace.” None of those soothing sounds greeted me as I entered. No one from Folly knew about my church attendance prior to my moving here, but if they were observant, they would have known that I had never graced their door. It felt as if everyone in the sanctuary was staring at me as I slipped into the next to last pew. However, no one stood, pointed at me, and shouted “Sinner!” I was relieved.

  The call to worship ended, and no one had paid attention to me more than anyone else. The preacher didn’t even call me out and ask who I was. I finally relaxed … until I spotted Joan seated three pews in front of me.

  Despite where I was, and my best intentions, I was angry with her. What right did she have to drag me into her life—her confused, tragic, and paranoid life. We hadn’t had any contact for decades. On the other hand, maybe the guy we were worshiping brought her back to me for a reason. Could this be my chance to make amends for chasing her off in the first place?

  Joan turned, saw me, and gave me the same sweet, alluring smile that had drawn me to her in high school. I had been deeply in love with her for many years. I added my anger to the list of guilts I already had this morning. I remembered what William had said about her having earned the right to be depressed, confused, and fearful. She deserved more understanding. Maybe it was William’s words or the preacher’s message about forgiveness, but I knew what I would do at the end of the service. With that resolved, I made a joyous noise unto the Lord as I joined the congregation in “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.”

  I waited outside. Joan came around the building and looked around until she saw me. She gave a high-wattage smile and rushed over to give me a warm hu
g. She appeared rested and quite nice in a dark green pantsuit.

  “I enjoyed your church,” she said after she let go and stepped back.

  I didn’t correct her. “I’m glad,” I said. “Want to get lunch?”

  “That’d be nice,” she said without hesitation.

  “I’ll drive,” I said.

  She laughed. “If you don’t speed.” She actually winked at me.

  I drove to downtown Charleston and found a parking spot on Queen Street, between King and Meeting streets, near the side entrance to the Mills House Hotel. Most of the year I wouldn’t have found a parking spot within blocks and would have been forced to park in one of the public parking garages. I was partial to small, quaint restaurants, so I escorted Joan across Queen Street to Poogan’s Porch, a cheerfully painted yellow late-1880s Victorian home converted to one of the city’s better-known eating establishments. Even though it was January, the restaurant was full and we had to wait for a table. Its Sunday brunch was reputed to be the best in the city.

  Joan asked if Poogan was the owner, and I explained that Poogan was a scruffy neighborhood dog that had adopted the old house before it became a restaurant. After the renovation, Poogan hung out on the porch and begged for table scraps. He became a low-cost welcoming committee for patrons. Poogan retired from his greeter job and from his time on Earth in the late seventies, but he lived on as the name of the restaurant.

  I noticed that Joan’s hands were not trembling and that she was paying attention to what I was saying. I shortened our wait by telling her that it was rumored that the ghost of the former owner was often seen walking around the restaurant in a long black dress.

  Her eyes lit up with mirth. “With Poogan?” she asked.

  It was nice to see a sincere smile. I said that she should ask the server.

  I was out of trivia about the restaurant when we were paged for our table. Charles could have drummed up another hour’s worth of worthless information. The pleasant college-aged hostess led us to a table in an attractive room along the back of the restaurant. A mural of Charleston’s famed White Point Gardens, better known as Battery Park, was on one wall, and our table was next to the Palladian windows that overlooked a patio—a prime seating area in warm weather. I ordered a mid-priced bottle of Joel Gott domestic Cabernet after pondering the extensive wine list. It was the first Cabernet that I could pronounce on the list.

  Joan asked the server if Poogan accompanied the former owner on her haunting excursions. The server appeared confused but quickly recovered and said that she would check with the chef. Joan laughed after the befuddled woman left to get our wine.

  The crowded room was noisy, and I slid my chair closer to Joan. “How are your parents?” I asked. I had realized on the drive over that I’d had several conversations with Joan in the last month, but all of them had been about recent events. I also didn’t want today’s conversation to sink to her paranoid fears and terrible memories of the last couple of weeks.

  “Gone,” she said.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said.

  She gazed out the doors to the patio. “Long time ago … Mom, cancer; Dad, car accident.”

  Way to go, Chris, I thought. Great way to distract her from Daniel’s death.

  The wine arrived, and we ordered from the brunch menu. I ordered the cinnamon french toast and wondered how Joan stayed so trim when she ordered a po’boy. I also wondered how a Cabernet would go with french toast. I didn’t linger on that thought.

  If someone had been eavesdropping, we would have sounded like two old friends catching up after decades of not seeing each other. We traded a few stories about college classmates—where they were now, what they were doing, who was married to or divorced from whom. I gave her a drastically abbreviated version of how I found Folly Beach and reiterated why I loved it so much. She said that she was shocked that I was friends with someone like Charles. I told her that I would have been shocked if I wasn’t. She said she didn’t understand; I said that neither did I. And she hadn’t even met Dude, Mad Mel, and Heather!

  As Joan shared a little about her career in the world of business, I held back a yawn of boredom. I was more interested in why Daniel had decided to move to Gatlinburg. Apparently, he never adequately explained why he had sold the businesses in California and why, with all the choices available, he selected the Tennessee resort community. She said she was more baffled about why he wanted to get involved with the Jaguar dealership, especially since he said he’d never liked the owners.

  The conversation was drifting too close to the depressing reality of the last few weeks, and I suggested that we walk to Charleston’s market. It was in the upper fifties, but in the bright afternoon sun, it felt warmer. The historic market was only a few blocks from Poogan’s.

  We approached the large Greek Revival entry, and Joan told me that she and Daniel had visited the popular tourist attraction several years ago. It wasn’t new to her, but the more than one hundred vendors, who sold everything from handmade sweetgrass baskets to Harley-Davidson belt buckles to Low-Country traditional benne wafers, kept her distracted. We meandered through half of the several-block-long open-air market, and she put her arm around mine, squeezed, and said, “This is fun. Thanks.”

  Joan was talking to one of the women weaving a sweetgrass basket when my cell rang. “What are you doing tonight?” said Charles. I could hear voices in the background.

  “Sleeping,” I said.

  “Overrated,” he said. “See you at midnight.”

  “Whoa,” I said, hoping to keep him from hanging up. “Where and, more importantly, why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Heather said about ghosts,” he said. “Think she’s on to something … oh yeah, be at Cal’s.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I said. Joan was about ten feet away and in deep conversation with the artist. Both were laughing.

  “I’ve been hearing noises after closing,” he said. “I never see anything. Dawn and Dustin told me that they’ve heard spooky sounds too.”

  “There are hundreds of mice and rats on the island,” I said. “It’s winter, and they want to get warm. You’re hearing them moving to their winter condos. It’s rats.”

  “Rats leave poop pellets,” said Charles. “Haven’t seen any—uh, not many. Besides, Heather said she has a feeling that unhappy poker-playing spirits are knocking the chairs over when they lose.” There was a pause. “Talk more about it tonight—midnight … Cal’s. See ya.” The phone went dead.

  I was staring at the phone when Joan tapped me on the shoulder. She had two baskets in her left hand and a smile on her face. “Nice lady,” she said. “I think I need to get home; I’m bushed.”

  I offered to get the car and pick her up, but she said she wasn’t that tired and would walk back to the restaurant with me, even smiling when she said it. She dozed on the ride home and thanked me profusely when I let her out at her car. I followed her back to Water’s Edge to make sure she was safe.

  On the short drive to the house, I realized that this had been a pleasant day and that spending time with Joan wasn’t half bad.

  I suspected things would get geometrically worse at midnight. Rat patrol?

  CHAPTER 33

  The front entrance to Cal’s was locked, so I went to the side door. It was a little before midnight. The overhead fluorescent lights that were off when the bar was open cast a stark shadow and accented how worn the dark brown carpet had become. Cal’s, like me and most of my aging friends, looked better in dim light.

  “About time you got here,” said Charles.

  If he hadn’t been so tired after tending bar all night, I’m certain he would have said, “You’re a real pal; thanks for coming. I owe you big time.”

  “Now that you’ve dragged me out of a night’s sleep, why are we here?” I said, throwing my jacket on the table closest to the bar.

/>   “Help me move these tables to the other side of the room, and then I’ll give you the scoop.” He pointed to two tables that had been scooted to the edge of the dance floor. He’d parked the crutches behind the bar and said he’d had enough of them.

  We slowly moved the tables, arranged four chairs at each, and then Charles returned to the bar. He asked me to lift onto the bar a beer case–sized brown cardboard box that Heather had delivered to the bar. It had an inch-wide orange stripe around it that looked like it was hand drawn with a colored marker.

  He leaned against the bar and rubbed his injured ankle. “It’s been a couple of nights since the thieves visited,” he said. “I figure they’re due. Heather’s ghosts make more sense than anything else.”

  Who am I to argue? I thought. Besides, it would be futile. And after all, the Low Country did have a storied history of ghosts.

  “Heather thought we’d need this to catch the ghosts,” he said. He started rooting through the box. He pulled out an aluminum device about twice the size of a cigarette pack. Two toggle switches, two dials, and a digital readout screen were on the face.

  “Umm,” I said, nodding toward the device that he set on the table.

  “It’s an ion counter, of course,” he said.

  Gee, I thought, how could I have skipped that bit of knowledge during my long and not-so-illustrious life?

  “Of course,” I said. “And other than counting ions—whatever they are—how is it going to help you catch a ghost?”

  He shook his head. “Chris, Chris, Chris … ghosts stir up a gaggle of positive ions because they radiate high amounts of electromagnetic discharges.”

  “Ah,” I said. “What number will that doohickey machine tell you is a high amount?”

  “No clue,” said Charles. “Heather didn’t tell me everything. I think we’ll know when it spots a spook.”

  “Speaking of Heather, where is she?” I asked. “Isn’t ghost stalking one of her hobbies?”

  “She said I was an idiot to stay out all night—and that she needed her beauty sleep.”